


Elegy

by pasiphile



Series: This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Lesbian Character, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Moriarty's death Irene goes to India, to see if he's left anything salvageable. What she finds is both less and more than she expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy

**Author's Note:**

> This is set roughly six months after the end of These Violent Delights, although it can be read as a standalone (the only thing you need to know is that Moriarty sent Moran undercover as a client to Irene to gather information on her).
> 
> warnings for somewhat dubious consent/rough violent sex, some vaguely racist overtones

She always underestimates the heat.

It's easier to shrug dismissively at forty degrees Celsius standing in a chilled room in Bern than it is when you're actually walking under the searing sun. Especially dressed the way she is.

The worst thing is that the clothes don't even make that much of a difference: even though she's dressed _extremely_ modestly by her standards, no bare skin apart from her face and her forearms, she still gets the same mixture of hostility and lust wherever she goes. Not that she's a stranger to that particular reaction, but there's something more explicit, overt about it here. Reason enough to keep her hand close to the little gun hidden underneath her skirt.

The café she walks into is no different from the other twenty or so she visited today. Conversations pause and heads turn. She's not welcome here. Well, fuck that, she's got a purpose.

She walks to the bartender. The name gets the usual shrug and leer, but when she slaps the picture down on the bar – along with several thousand rupees – the man's eyes narrow, and after a few seconds he jerks his thumb at the back of the bar. She nods and goes to see, acutely aware of all the eyes tracking her every movement.

The back part of the bar is separated from the rest of the room by a thick curtain. There's just enough of a gap to be able to peek inside, see the men sitting at a low table in a haze of smoke. It's easy to spot the odd one out, paler and faired-haired than the rest of them.

She waits, impatiently, until someone notices her – forward she may be, she's smart enough to know that striding into this secret little nook unannounced would be more trouble than it's worth. She doesn't have to wait long, though. One of the men meets her eyes, with another obligatory leer, and elbows her quarry, sitting next to him. He turns his head, then gets up and walks to the curtain, moving slowly and carefully.

He yanks the curtain aside and looks her up and down.

He's changed since the last time she saw him. Skin tanned and hair bleached by the sun, and thinner than he used to be, but there's something else, something missing that was there before.

His pupils are huge, movements slow. _High as a kite_ , she thinks, not knowing whether to be amused or worried.

“Miss Adler,” he says warily. Good boy; he might be tripping but he still has the sense to be cautious.

“Mr Moran. Can we talk in private?”

He gives her a long, measuring look - or maybe he's just zoning out, he's always been hard to read. After a few moments he jerks his head to the door and shouts something in melodic Hindi – or is it Urdu? she always forgets – at the men in the back. It sounds remarkably unaccented to her ears.

She follows him out of the café. Moran might have gone to seed, but he still hasn't lost that ability to draw attention. As he strides down the streets people make room for him, hurrying to get out of his path – no pushy beggars or touts or cheering children for him. The leering and shouting at her has stopped as well, with him as her chaperone.

Despite all that, doubt is starting to creep up on her. The Moran she remembers would have chatted with her, flirted, would have employed all his considerable amount of natural charm to make her feel at ease – and consequently drop her guard. But now? He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes down, might as well be a ghost for all he interacts with her.

Maybe this is a mistake. She has certainly no intentions of wasting her time playing nurse to a wreck beyond saving.

But it's too late to turn back now. She follows him to a small rusty door, a few streets away from the café, and up two flights of narrow stairs. Once upstairs she's panting a little, sweating even worse than before, and she gratefully takes a few deep breaths while Moran fumbles with his keys.

He waves her inside and switches on the light. The harsh glare does nothing to hide the grubby furniture, the half-empty bottles, the dirty laundry strewn about. It's merciless on him too, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble on his face, his hollow cheeks.

“How the mighty have fallen,” she says, giving the room another disdainful look. “What happened to Knightsbridge?”

“You think I give a _shit_ about luxury?” he snarls.

She blinks at the ferocity. Maybe he hasn't lost his edge after all. “You don't seem to give a shit about anything right now.”

“Yeah, well...” He crosses his arms and glowers at her. “So?”

She thinks of the charming, well-spoken man who'd sat in her parlour, languid and graceful and completely at ease, the perfect gentleman.

They might as well be different people.

She leans back against the table – no chairs anywhere – and shrugs out of her shirt, breathing deeply as the cool air touches her now-bare sweaty arms and back. “You don't mind, do you?” she asks, gesturing to her shoulders.

“I'll manage to restrain my lust,” he says, sarcastically. He turns his back to her and reaches for a water bottle.

It would be easy to kill him now, really. Her gun within arm's reach, one shot would do it. But what would be the point of that? If he's useful she'll take him; if he's not, he's not a threat anyway.

He turns around again, drinking, adam's apple bobbing up and down, eyes closed. A bit of water drips down his chin, but he doesn't wipe it away. It looks strangely messy, even though it's just water.

“You've not been doing well, have you?” she says, thoughtfully.

He bangs the bottle back down. “If you're just here to state the obvious you might as well fuck off. _Miss Adler_ ,” he adds, contemptuously.

“What if I said I'm here to help you?”

“You're a viper,” he says, turning away. ”I'd rather drown than let you pull me out.”

“Lost your way, have you?”

“Lost more than that,” he mutters. Dramatic, while he had always struck her as a dry, pragmatical sort. He can't have changed that much, can he?

“It must be hard for you,” she says softly, watching him. “Losing him like that.”

He doesn't reply. She straightens up and takes a step closer, eyes on the scarred skin and muscles of his back, clearly visible beneath his thin white shirt.

“It must get lonely...” she whispers, reaching out slowly. Her fingertips touch his shoulder.

And suddenly he turns and lunges, left hand digging in the tendons of her wrist before she can even reach for her gun. He slams her against the wall and presses his forearm against her windpipe.

“Is that why you're here?” he hisses, face close to hers. She closes her eyes, turns her head. She _hates_ it when it comes to this, when all her defences are wiped off the table by brute force. “Are you looking for a lapdog? Do you think you can even _begin_ to compare to him?”

And as suddenly as he attacked her he lets her go again.

She feels her throat, coughing. Moran puts her gun on the table and turns away, head down, almost as if he's ashamed. All the fight seems to have suddenly left him. He looks tired. No, not just tired: worn-out, like he doesn't have any energy left to care.

“Not lost your touch, I see,” she says, voice rough.

“My touch?” He laughs. “You mean I can still overpower a woman half my weight? Yeah, that's a real skill.”

“Overpower?” she says, raising her eyebrow.

Moran throws her an ironic look. “ _Physically_ overpower, I should say. I know how fucking dangerous you are.”

“I'm flattered. Now, can I sit down or are you going to strangle me again?”

He waves his hand at the bed. “Go ahead.”

She sits down and rubs her ankle, scrunches her nose at the state of her shoes. “I have no idea why anyone would choose Lucknow over London,” she says, taking off her shoe and wiping off the worst of the muck.

“It's familiar. Home, and London isn't - ” He stops. He looks uncomfortable, awkward. Helpless, almost, a word she would never have thought to associate with him.

“Then again,” she says, breaking the tense silence, “you've always been a man of unusual tastes.”

He gives her a pointed look. “Bit rich, coming from you.”

“I didn't say I _mind_ , did I?”

“Why are you here?”

She smiles at him, unperturbed. “You know why.”

“I'm - ” He stops again and runs a hand through his hair. It makes him look uncharacteristically vulnerable, which...

Well, she isn't made of stone. Funny, she hadn't really thought of this as anything other than a strictly business arrangement when she first set out.

“I _can't_ ,” he says, strangely flustered. “I'm – You're not... It's him, alright, just... Just him, and I - ”

“Easy,” she says, in the same voice she uses for panicking subs, calm and authoritative and reassuring.

Moran promptly relaxes. And then something sour and angry crosses his face. “Don't,” he growls at her.

She raises her hands in a gesture of innocence. “Just demonstrating,” she says. “You can't deny we work well together, Sebastian. We'd make a good team. Complementary.”

“Brains and brawn, you mean?” He scoffs and turns away.

“I don't just want a bodyguard.”

He looks over his shoulder at her, frowning.

“I want _you_ ,” she says, softly. Her face is flushed, her voice still slightly hoarse, and his attack has ripped her top, baring one delicate shoulder and the swell of her breast all the way to just above her nipple.

Needless to say, _surprised laughter_ is not the reaction she'd been hoping for. God, the man must have ice-water running through his veins.

“Yeah, I don't think so,” he says, still chuckling.

“Then the least you can do is offer me a drink, after all this distance for nothing.”

He stares at her, and then he laughs again. “My God, Irene, you don't give up easily, do you?”

She dimples at him. “Perseverance is one of my many virtues.”

“I don't doubt that for a second. But yeah, feel free.” He waves a hand at the fridge. “And do you mind if I take a shower?”

“Not at all,” she replies with her most charming smile.

He gives her a quick nod and disappears down the tiny bathroom.

She looks around the flat. It's tempting to have a quick rummage around, see what she can find, but she still doesn't trust Moran.

Trusts him even less than before, actually.

The sound of running water fills the room, drowning the shouts and the traffic sounds and the occasional mooing from outside. She takes a bottle of something fruity and sparkly from the fridge and gives the bathroom a thoughtful look.

Maybe it's not that surprising, Moran's breakdown. She'd seen them together, after all, seen the complete devotion and worship in Moran's eyes every time he looked at his boss. It had never been just loyalty between the two of them.

So the only question is: exactly _how_ broken is Moran? Is he still useful? Can she fix him?

She goes back to the bed and takes a sip, closing her eyes as the cold liquid soothes her sore throat. Moran is _dangerous_ , though, even – _especially_ – in the state he's in now. She's constantly at risk with him.

Those are the cons, obviously, but the pros? She could use someone like him, competent and clever and physically powerful, good at taking orders while still being able to use his initiative when the situation demanded it. A perfect second-in-command.

And that's not even taking her personal feelings into consideration. The man had looked _beautiful_ in chains and on his knees and with tears in his eyes. Even now, thinking back on it is enough to make her smile.

“Penny for 'em?”

She looks up. Moran is standing in the door to the tiny bathroom, scrubbing at his hair, wearing nothing but a fairly small towel. She arches an eyebrow. If she swung that way...

“I'd apologise for the lack of clothing, but,” he gives her another of those amused, ironic looks, “I've heard you've entertained guests in less. And it is bloody hot.”

“It is,” she agrees, crossing her legs. His eyes follow the movement. “Although I've always been of the opinion naked men possess a certain amount of ridiculousness that naked women lack.”

“It's the dangling,” he says, with a wry smile. “Hence the towel. I'm clinging to whatever dignity I still have left.”

He crosses the room and roots through a bag, pulls out a pair of linen trousers. She watches him thoughtfully. He's a lot calmer than he was just minutes ago, more _focused_. Must have washed the opium from his system.

He drops the towel and pulls his trousers on without an ounce of embarrassment or shame. But that had been the case before, as well. She still remembers the mixed excitement and worry when she had found out her usual tricks – the nudity, the handcuffs, her superciliousness – weren't having the effect they usually had.

He was a challenge, then. Still is, but in a very different way.

He stretches lazily and turns to her. “You made a mistake, coming here." 

She almost laughs at the cliche of it. “Really?” she says, mocking. “Are you going to make me pay for it?”

“That's not what I meant. Lucknow...This isn't exactly your kind of hunting ground.”

“Ah, that. Yes, I've noticed. They don't like me very much, do they?”

He gives her a grim smile. “You represent everything they hate and fear. You won't find many clients here, they're too...”

“Repressed? Prudish?”

“No, not really,” he says, considering. “Just... not into playing games with sex.'

“And that from the country that produced the Kama Sutra.”

He smiles. “Long time ago. Times change, Miss Adler.”

“ _Irene_ ,” she says, pointedly.

“Isn't that breaking the rules? Allowing your clients to use your given name?”

“I'm a rule-breaker by nature. And you're not my client.”

“You want me to be.”

“Not exactly.”

He cocks his head, studying her. He has very light eyes, pale grey, a bit like -

No. She won't think about him now, she can't afford distractions.

“So why are you here, then?” Moran asks, casually. “What convinced you to give this part of the world a go?”

“I've told you, I'm just here for you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he says, looking around the room for a place to sit.

“You underestimate your own significance.”

He drops a pillow on the floor and sits down cross-legged, putting him at a lower level. He sees her looking down and smirks. “Don't get any ideas. And I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I really can't see how this would ever work. We're both far too stubborn to give up control to someone else.”

“We could be equals. I don't always have to be on top, you know.”

“Oh, really? 'Cause you seem to be the type to top from the bottom.”

“I can accommodate, if needs must.” Her top is sticking to her skin with sweat. She rearranges it a bit and once again Sebastian's eyes stray. The thin linen top is as good as see-through, she didn't bother putting on a bra, no wonder he's looking.

“I'm not going to ask you to be something you're not,” he says, looking back up at her face.

She blinks, surprised. That's... not a sentiment she'd expect to hear from someone like him. “Pretending is how I make my living, darling.”

“Exactly,” he says drily. “And it's not just that. I'm not just...”

She smiles. “You wouldn't be content with just being my right hand?'

“Where's Kate?”

She opens her mouth and closes it again, a little startled. It sounds like a non-sequitur, but... “Safe. If you're wondering.”

“I _am_ wondering. When people like you discard people like me it tends to be messy. Look at me. Look at Watson.”

“Unless you're picked up again.”

He twitches, but doesn't respond.

Careful, now.

“You said it yourself: you're lost,” she says, keeping her voice soft, insinuating. “Don't you just _long_ for purpose again?”

He looks up sharply. “I...”

“I could give you that,” she continues. “Something to live for.” She licks her lips, decides to risk it. “Someone to belong to.”

He breathes out heavily, watching her with rapt attention.

“I'm not Jim Moriarty, Sebastian.” She leans forward, keeping eye-contact. It feels like tightrope-walking. “Nor do I pretend to be, we both know how futile that would be. But we can work, you and I. I can be - ”

“What I want you to be?”

“ _Need_ me to be.”

He looks away, mouth thin. “To do _what_?” he asks, avoiding her eyes. “Throw out the handsy clients? Protect you from the assassins you're still running from? Kneel and cower and beg whenever you feel like it?”

“I told you, I need more than just a bodyguard. And as for the latter... Well, you seemed to rather enjoy that, as I recall.”

His looks up again, eyes sharp, lips parted.

She smiles. “Did you think I hadn't noticed? You were more than happy to give up control then. Don't you want that again? How often have you simply wanted someone to _take over,_ hm? Leave the decisions to someone else, follow their lead?”

He shakes his head, as if hypnotised. “No, that's not... I mean - ”

“Only if the people in charge deserve it, yes, I know. And there aren't many of those around, are there?” She puts her hand lightly on his forearm. He doesn't throw her off. “Jim was,” she says.

He looks up at her again, expression unreadable.

“And I am,” she adds, calmly. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” He blinks, looks down, licks his lips.

“I can give you what you need,” she continues. “Do you remember? I _had_ you, when you came to me that first time. Made you surrender everything, and you loved every second of it. And you could have that again. Have it constantly, _live_ it. All I need from you is a _yes_ , and all this,” she gestures at the room, “the pain, the helplessness, the loneliness... it stops. Just one _yes_ , Sebastian.”

His hand has curled into a fist. He's shaking, a tiny subtle little tremble that she wouldn't even have noticed if it wasn't for her hand on his arm.

She waits, lets him think, and feel. Nothing she can say now can sway him further.

He breathes out, heavily, shaky. And then he looks up at her, and there's something so terribly desperately _needy_ in his expression that she's absolutely convinced that this is it, that she has him, that he's given in.

But then he swallows, his face becomes a cold hard mask again, and he shakes her hand off. “No.”

 _Damn_.

She blows out her cheeks and leans back against the wall, eyes closed. “Well, at least I tried,” she says, only half-joking.

Moran laughs, breaking the last of the tension. “You make one hell of a temptress, Irene.”

“Did I come close?” she asks, smiling.

“Terrifyingly so.”

She cracks one eye open. “Lots of practice, darling,” she says, and pats the bed. “Come, sit here, your hip is going to protest otherwise. I promise I'll keep my hands to myself.”

He opens his mouth, then closes, that strange vulnerability flying across his face again. “Yeah, I... Thanks.” He hops up and sits down next to her, leaving a careful few inches between them.

It feels strange, having someone this close. She can't remember – well, of course she can, the last night she spent with Kate, Kate's head pillowed on her lap, her hand in Kate's hair. But after that, every close physical contact she's had has been with clients.

It's surprising how much she has missed it.

“I'm not the only who looks tired,” Moran says suddenly.

She gives him a look.

“Although you're significantly better at hiding it. How long have you been running, now?”

“More than a year,” she says, reluctantly. “You get used to it, though.”

“Do you?”

“No, not really.” She sighs. "But no sense in complaining about something you can't change."

He closes his eyes and leans his head back. “Do you know there are bets on how long you were going to last?”

She shivers. “I'm not surprised to hear it, no.”

“Shortest was about a week.” He gives her a heavy-lidded look. “You've already gone four months past the longest. There was a lot of cursing.”

She smiles. “And how long did _you_ think I was going to survive?”

“I think there could be a nuclear apocalypse and you'd still crawl out of the ashes unharmed. You're a _cockroach_ , Irene.”

“First a viper, now a cockroach?” she says, chuckling. “Such a charmer.”

She crosses her legs and semi-accidentally ends up bridging the few inches between them. He's solid and warm against her. With the night starting to fall the air has become cooler, and there's something quite comforting about feeling his body heat, practically radiating from his bare chest.

He doesn't move away, his thigh resting against hers.

“No similar bets on you, though,” she says, thoughtfully. “Most people think you're dead. But then you did disappear very suddenly, I heard." She cocks her head. "What have you been up to, actually?”

“Not much.” He shrugs. “Joined a mercenary company, then left again. Toured around a bit, got drunk a lot.”

“Got high a lot?”

He pulls a face “Once or twice. It's a moment of distraction, but it isn't... Same with the sex.”

His thigh is still resting against hers, and it's oddly distracting. “No solace in the arms of your partners?” she asks, trying to keep her head clear.

“I tried, a few times, but it...” He trails off.

“Don't tell me you've gone celibate?” she asks, surprised.

He shrugs, awkwardly. “I'm – It's never going to be the way it was, and I don't... I mean, other people, they're not...” He waves his hand, then drops it to his thigh, lost for words.

“They're not him.”

He looks up, surprised. There aren't more than a few inches separating them, and she can feel the hard bone of his hip pressing against her.

And she _wants_.

She reaches out and traces the back of her fingers over his cheek. He flinches, but then relaxes into the touch. The weary, tired look is back on his face, but this time there's something soft about it too.  _Lonely_ , she called him, and that's what predominates in him right now, even above the grief and the fury and the vulnerability. Some deep sense of being left alone.

And oh how she can relate to that. 

He reaches out and copies her movement, stroking her cheekbone with two fingers, surprisingly gentle. Her breath catches - it's the first tender touch she's felt in almost eighteen months, and she doesn't do this trembling maiden bullshit but she can't help the way her skin suddenly feels on fire. It's simply been too long.

He slides his hand to her neck but doesn't pull, leaving her to make the first move - not that she needs to think long. She closes her eyes and leans in, drinking in the scent of him, the nearness.

Her lips brushes his in something that's almost too light to be called a kiss. He strokes his thumb across her nape, the calluses giving it a strange, rough feel. He tastes of mint and some strange faint sweetness, and she'd never _ever_ expected him to be this gentle a kisser.

She pulls away, leans back again and licks her lips, eyes half-closed. His hand is still on her nape, warm and heavy, and without really noticing she has put her hand on his shoulder. She can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the hard bone of his clavicle beneath her thumb. Smell the clean soap and tobacco and lingering sweat on him.

“Well,” she says softly.

“Well.”

She tips his chin up, watches him. He looks attentive, although a little dazed. Teetering on the edge of subspace? She leans in for another kiss, but he pulls away.

“You're still calculating,” he says, almost accusing.

“Occupational hazard, I'm afraid.”

He tilts his head, searching her face. “Tell me,” he says softly. “Is sex ever just _sex_ for you?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, thinking back at Kate, at Anne, at those half a dozen women she had called her girlfriend. But even then...

“It hasn't been for quite a while,” she admits. "Is that what you want this to be? Meaningless?"

“It's never just _meaningless_ , is it? But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that sex can mean a lot of things.”

“Like comfort?” she asks, leaning close enough to feel every breath on her lips.

“Something like it.”

She closes the distance again, and this time he lets her. He strokes her neck, thumb at the base of her skull, and his other hand finds her waist. It's been a _long_ time since she did this with a man, and every unusual little detail – the stubble, the calluses, the muscles – keeps her alert, awake. 

His hands slide to the small of her back – large hands, almost able to entirely circle her waist – and he pushes. She throws her leg over his and ends up straddling his lap, both his hands on her hips. She puts her hands on his shoulders and lets her head fall back as he kisses her throat. His thighs underneath his, the muscle and bone of his shoulders, the puff of cool breath against her overheated bare skin...

God, how she wants.

He brushes the side of her breast. She hums in appreciation and takes his hair, pulls him to her shoulder. He obediently presses a kiss just beneath her ear, lips gently tickling her skin. She pets his neck and closes her eyes, shivering.

“I haven't been with a woman in over six years,” he murmurs into her hair.

She laughs, startled out of her lust-filled daze. “I'd keep that to yourself if I were you, darling.”

He twitches at the endearment and she leans back, trying to catch his eye. For all his tenderness, he's still a dangerous man. Make a mistake and she's dead, she doesn't have any doubts about that, but, well... She's always been a risk-taker, and the threat is more an aphrodisiac than anything else.

“Promise me something,” he says, looking serious.

“Depends on what you're asking.”

“Don't fake.” His fingertips trail over the side of her face. “Don't pretend. I'm not paying, remember?”

She smiles. “Not afraid I'm going to present you with the bill afterwards?”

“No,” he says simply.

She leans in again but he pulls back. She rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says, "no faking," and she pulls him in for another kiss. His teeth graze against her bottom lip and he cups her breast, thumb stroking her nipple, sending a spark down her spine.

She shouldn't be doing this, not with him. It's a risk, it's dangerous, and there are plenty of people who would be more than eager to fuck her, if she asked. _Safe_ people. On the other hand -

On the other hand she's been feeling cold ever since Sherlock died and she could do with some comfort.

Moran reaches for the hem of her skirt, already bunched up around her knees, and pulls it higher, out of the way. It's strange; she would have expected him to want to tear her clothes off, but once again he's surprising her with his considerateness. 

He slides his hand up the inside of her thigh and then presses the palm of his hand against her cunt. She bites her lip, fingers digging into his shoulders. He curls his fingers and slowly drags upwards, his other hand still on her breast, thumb circling her nipple.

“For someone who hasn't fucked a woman in six years,” she gasps, “you're not half bad at it.”

“Some things you never forget.”

His fingers slip beneath her knickers and slide wetly against her. She arches her back, which he clearly sees as an invitation because he immediately pull her top out of the way and lowers his head, sucking hard, teeth grazing her skin.

She moans and squeezes his shoulders again. It's slipping out of her control, which she isn't used to, not anymore, not with _men_. And she's damned if she's just going to let it happen.

She grabs his hair and yanks his head away from her chest. He blinks - mouth wet, eyes dark - and stops moving altogether, watching her carefully. Whoever taught him – whether it was Jim or someone else, before he came along – they did a good job.

She takes his chin and leans in slowly, pausing a hair's breadth away from his mouth. He gives a little shiver, eyes wide, and something inside of her _snarls._ Still holding his chin, she reaches down with her other hand and firmly grabs his crotch. He jolts, but doesn't pull back.

She keeps eye-contact and tightens her grip a little. He slowly pulls his hand back from her knickers, like a cornered criminal lowering his gun. Good boy.

She lets go again and he takes her shoulder. Again he pauses briefly, as if asking for permission. She nods and he adjusts, shifts his thigh, then flips them around. She lands on her back, the mattress squeaking rather alarmingly. Moran helps her out of her shirt and pulls the skirt over her head. It comes as a relief, being naked, getting rid of the sticky linen and cotton. She scratches her nails down his chest, just because she can, and smirks when he shudders in response.

But when he reaches for his trousers she takes his wrist, stopping him. “No.”

He doesn't even blink. “Which bit?”

“Penetration. No.”

“Fingers?”

“Fine, in moderation.”

He gives her a half-smile and bows his head, once again heading for her breasts.

He's _good_ , she realises, once he really gets into it. She likes things a bit more rough, generally speaking, and more than once she has laid back, bored, while her partner treated her nipple like it was a delicate little flower. But Moran figures out fairly quickly what she wants, hard pulls of his teeth and sharp sucking. He even bites down at one point, and she gasps and pulls hard at his hair at the shock of pain-pleasure.

“Don't - ” she gasps, “don't try that anywhere else.”

He hums, but stays where he is, suckling and biting at her nipple until she impatiently pulls his hair again.

He lets go with a wet sound and scoots down the bed. She raises her legs and leans the back of her thighs on his shoulders, pulling him in eagerly. Her breasts are aching pleasantly and the air is shockingly cool on her skin and she's soaking wet, burning for touch.

But he doesn't dive in immediately. For a second he pauses, like before, but even when she nudges her thigh against his shoulder he doesn't budge; not about permission, then. She can't see his face, bowed as it is, but she can feel his sudden tension.

She breathes in deeply and tries to stay calm. It's hard not to feel vulnerable though, in this position, naked, his weight on top of her, gun out of her reach. Not that there's any point in fighting either. She gives his forearm a companionable squeeze and waits it out.

After a few seconds he shivers, leans down, and closes his mouth over her cunt. She breathes out in relief.

He's more than just _good_. He's got agile fingers and an eager tongue, and a lot more technique than she'd expect from a man, but it's more than just that. He's almost frighteningly attentive, trying all sorts of things and then sticking to the ones that make her moan and twitch and pull at his hair. Jim's training, no doubt.

She looks at the ceiling and laughs, breathlessly, imagining Jim watching from beyond the grave. Would he be furious and possessive, the way he had been, or would he cheer them on?

Moran's finger pushes inside, going deep and curling up. He teases against her, light tickling strokes of his tongue, but just as it's crossing the line from teasing to annoying and she's reaching for his hair, he stops and opens wide, sucks _hard_. She yelps and cants her hips, desperate for more.

His fingers dig into her hip, holding her still. She writhes and throws her hand over her head, tangles her fingers in the sheets, panting. She can't help but feel a little helpless about this all, and it would bother her more except there's something almost _worshipful_ in Moran's touch.

She grabs his hair and pulls him hard against her. He gets a little rougher in response, just the way she wanted him, the fucking _mindreader._ She clenches down on his fingers and arches off the mattress, biting her tongue, _this_ close to orgasm -

\- and falls back hard as she comes, gasping for air, Moran's head trapped between her thighs. He laps at her, gently, which is an amazing feeling to come down to.

She slowly relaxes her legs and lets him get back up, still winded. He wipes his mouth and runs a hand through his suddenly messy hair, blinking. But he doesn't crawl up to fall all over her, the way she hates, the way most people do; instead he just sits back.

Waiting for instructions. God, he really was born for this.

Well, time for a bit of turnabout. She sits up and grabs his arm, pulling him down. The bed is too narrow and it's more than a little clumsy, but eventually she has him where she wants, flat on his back, and her sitting out of his reach.

He's looking a little... odd, again. Insecure.

“Easy,” she says, leaning forward. She runs her hand over his throat and chest, full of that possessive feeling again. Just like before, only now it's much stronger, distilled. She wants to _take._

He pushes up a little onto his elbows. “Down,” she snaps, her hand on his stomach. He falls back almost immediately, watching her cautiously, his stomach quivering beneath her palm. She curls her fingers and slowly scratches four parallel red stripes into his skin. He shivers again and moves his hand, as if to stop her, but then drops it again.

She squeezes her thighs together, lust flaring again. He looks even better than he had in her memories.

He shuts his eyes and mouths something, looking more desperate by the second. She kneels between his thighs and pulls him up. It's a familiar thrill by now, the delight of being a smallish woman manhandling someone twice her size. And he follows willingly, shuffling up, legs spread wide, until he's half-resting on her thighs and his lower back is no longer touching the mattress. 

She tilts her head and looks down at him. His eyes are slightly glazed over and his grip on the sheets is white-knuckled. Sliding deeper into whatever headspace he already was in.

She _likes_ men like this, sexual preferences notwithstanding. There's something delightfully perverse in seeing powerful men reduced to this, to want and obedience and silent desperation. She wraps her fingers around his cock and he closes his eyes and bites his lip, with an expression like he's seeing god. She has to bite down on a triumphant laugh.

He's right, some things you don't forget, and it might be ages since she last handled someone's cock like this but the movement of her hand comes almost naturally. Besides, Moran is responsive enough to make it easy. 

He's not what she expected, though. The noises he makes are quiet, bitten-back, and he seems to be trying hard not to move. She'd put it down to submission, but her gut feeling is telling her different.

What the _hell_ is wrong with him?

She swipes her thumb experimentally over the head of his cock and he twitches, sure enough, but...

And then his eyes fly open. With an unnerving vividness she's reminded of that first time, the moment when his cover had slipped and his control had fallen away and he had stared up at her with ice-cold violent challenging _fury_.

Just like it had then, something inside of her responds.

He sits up abruptly and grabs her shoulder. She lets go off his cock and falls down heavily on her side. She's barely got time to breathe before he's on her, kissing her hungrily, his fingers digging into her hip. She rakes her nails down his back as hard as she can and he arches up, face twisted in pain. Which looks lovely, of course, but also means he's too far away. She grabs the back his neck and forces his mouth to her throat. His hands scrabble at her thighs and push them roughly open.

She tenses up. If he – if he forgets, if he even _tries_ to put his cock anywhere near her...

But he doesn't. He obediently keeps it to fingers, although he's rough enough that, sensitive as she still is, she almost pulls him off again. She doesn't, though, because after months of involuntary celibacy this feels like a particularly perverse kind of heaven. She pushes her hips into his hand and tangles her fingers in his hair - she wouldn't be surprised if she's actually pulled out a few locks by now.

But it goes both ways. His hand tangles in her hair, pulling the pins loose, angling her head back to get better access to her throat. There's something wild about him, feral. Violent. It should frighten her, maybe, but mostly it's just _hot_.

She bends her leg and digs her heel into the mattress, levering him away from her a little, just enough to get her hand between them as well. It's hard to concentrate with his hand still between her legs - he's almost as good with his fingers as he is with his mouth, the bastard - but his reaction when she fists his cock is more than worth it. She moves her hand up, accompanied by his groans, and this time she doesn't bother holding in her delighted laugh.

There's nothing trained about this, or skilled, refined, nothing like the sex she usually has. But it's exactly what she needs; it's so easy to get lost in it, the hard painful kisses and his rough fingers and his chest underneath her nails. 

 _Don't fake_.

But it still isn't enough, she's still just _lying back_. She wants to hear more of those groans. 

She pushes off the mattress again and rolls over him. He grabs her shoulder as if to wrestle with her, but she pulls back at his arm -

\- and with a loud thud they land on the floor. She has just enough time to give thanks for the low bed before he's on her again, eagerly kissing her shoulder. She wraps her legs around his waist and uses her full weight to pull him off balance, then beats his grasping hand away.

They settle on lying side by side, Moran's hand still working between her legs and hers between his. She jerks him off without grace, drunk on the rough friction of his hand, his teeth on her throat and mouth and breasts, the noises he makes when she tightens her hand, when she scratches and bites back.

She's almost disappointed when she finally comes again and it all suddenly becomes a little too much. He doesn't notice this time, and she has to forcibly pull his hand away from her. He blinks up at her, eyes dark, pupils huge.

She grabs his neck and kisses him, all teeth and tongue, pumping his cock. He tries to pull away but she keeps him close and bites down on his lip, swallowing his moan when he comes and gleefully working her hand until he growls and pulls her away.

She rolls onto her back. He drops down next to her, their heavy breathing almost in sync.

She should say something. Make some joke about it, or sneer, or try to win him over again now his defences are all down.

But she doesn't.

He sits up and wipes his hand on the sheets. She follows his example and then gets back on the bed, still panting a little. The sheets smell of sweat and sex but they're blessedly cool underneath her.

Moran hesitates by the side of the bed. She takes his wrist - she can feel his pulse racing - and gives him an impatient little pull. He gets on the bed, a little awkwardly. She turns onto her side and hooks her leg around his, rests her head on his shoulder. He tentatively wraps an arm around her shoulders.  _Cuddling_ , something she hardly ever indulges in, but right now there's something incredibly comforting about curling around Moran's bulk.

She closes her eyes. The long day is catching up with her, the tiring heat, the endless walking, the stress of constantly being on edge. And, counterintuitively, she feels safe here.

She sighs deeply, burrows a little closer, and falls asleep to the sound of Moran's breathing and his heartbeat.

***

She wakes up pleasantly sore and with recollections of last nights trickling slowly through her mind.  _When in doubt, use sex_ has been one of her oldest personal rules, but she doesn't usually carry through on it. 

Not that she regrets any of it, of course. But... God, it has been _ages_ since she last pity-fucked anyone. On the other hand, she has a creeping suspicion that the pity wasn't entirely one-sided.

_Is sex ever just sex to you?_

Or maybe she's overthinking things. She sits up and stretches, yawning.

Moran is shaving over the sink, a piece of broken mirror balanced against the wall. His back and neck are covered in scratches and bruises, she's pleased to see. Although she'd be very surprised if she doesn't have at least one matching mark somewhere on her throat or shoulder.

“Morning,” he says, easily.

She blinks. Not angry-embarrassed, the way she expected him to be, not awkward, not desperately trying to pretend nothing happened. Instead he seems perfectly casual.

“Did I fuck you back to life?” she asks, but as soon as the words leave her mouth she realises the early-morning daze has made her forget her accent.

Moran doesn't seem surprised. Maybe he already knew. Likely, considering who his major source of information had been.

“I could use a nudge,” he says, calmly.

She blinks and sits up. He sounds _completely_ different than he has yesterday. Much more at ease, controlled. Calmer too. It has to be more than just the after-effects of the sex, right?

He sees her looking and smiles. “You snore, by the way."

“Really? It's been a while since anyone has been in a position to let me know.”

“I'm flattered,” he says drily, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

She smiles. _Much_ different than yesterday. Maybe that had been simply an unusually sombre day, maybe he's not doing that badly after all.

She gets out of bed and stretches again, lazily. The sex was pretty good too, and he did come close to giving in yesterday, so maybe third time's the charm? It might be worth a try.

She looks absently out of the window and catches Moran's reflection. He's still shaving – but no, he's stopped, the razor resting just beneath his jaw as if he's waiting for something. She quietly turns around and catches sight of his expression.

Her stomach turns.

 _Not that bad_. God, how could she be that naïve, not seeing beyond the mask? You might as well put a band-aid on an open festering wound.

She looks away again, allowing him his moment of weakness, still feeling a little sick. It felt too _private_ , deeply intrusive, and god knows she's nosy as hell most of the time but...

But this was something she'd rather not have seen.

She coughs. A second later she can hear the rasp of a razor against stubble. Has he noticed? If he has, he doesn't comment on it.

“I'm famished,” she says, carefully casual. “I don't suppose...”

He gestures at the table, where a paper bag and two oranges are waiting for her, next to her gun.

“The perfect gentleman.”

“Hardly. Half of that is for me.” He clicks the straight razor closed and towels his face dry. “I haven't been eating well, lately. D'you want a shirt or anything?”

She feels dizzy. It's disorienting, all that casual charming sociability but beneath all that he's –

“That would be lovely, thanks,” she manages.

He goes to a large suitcase and zips it open. Even from where she's standing she can see the gun lying on top of the clothes. Not that that's particularly surprising.

He tosses her a shirt and she puts it on. It's far too large for her, she has to roll back the sleeves at least three times. In other circumstances she would have considered it a subtle attempt to make her feel small, weak, but Moran... He doesn't underestimate her. He never had, now that she thinks of it. From the first time she met him, he'd been extremely wary of her.

He leans against the counter, peeling an orange. Irene bites into her pastry and watches him. What now? She should leave him to his grief, obviously. Although... Grief can be shaped into something useful, if you do it right. He might be broken, but that doesn't necessarily mean he can't be used. And he seems capable enough of hiding it.

Maybe it's worth the risk after all.

He lobs the peel into the trashcan and stands up. “I'm going upstairs. Roof, need a bit of fresh air. The bathroom is all yours. Don't bother turning on the hot water, there never is any.”

“Thanks.”

He shrugs, pops a part of orange in his mouth, and goes to the door.

The minute it falls closed she starts snooping. The suitcase is first. She carefully uses a t-shirt to hold and examine the gun, but it's nothing special, just your bogstandard Glock. The clothes inside are what she could have expected, just shirts and trousers, all his. There's another suitcase shoved in a corner, which she rifles through next. Nothing if interest there either, just warmer clothes, suits and jeans and the occasional jumper. All his as well, no sneakily keeping one of Jim's suits as a reminder.

She gets up again and puts her hands on her hips, wondering. Where _would_ he keep anything of importance?

The kitchenette's cupboards and drawers don't yield anything beyond some cutlery, nor does the bathroom. Just toothpaste, shampoo and soap, shaving foam. The razor is an old-fashioned cutthroat model, completely with a strop to sharpen it. It's the only thing that doesn't fit the extreme ruthless functionality of all his other possessions. Although maybe it fits as well – a straight razor is a weapon in a way a safety razor could never hope to be.

She runs her hand through her loose, unkempt hair. Nothing telling to be found. But then again, would he have left her here unsupervised if there had been anything of interest for her to find?

She sighs and goes to the shower.

***

Moran still isn't back when she gets out of the shower, so she slides back in her skirt and steals one of his shirts. After a moment of thought she takes her gun back and hides it underneath her skirt again. Then she goes upstairs.

There's a flat roof with a fair view of the city. The sun is just coming up, casting the buildings in a rich orange light, and Moran is standing at the edge of the roof, arms crossed.

He paints a rather impressive picture. Expression calm and observant, back straight. That's how she remembers Sebastian Moran, that cold watchful competence next to Jim's flamboyant genius. It's different seeing it while knowing what's going on below the surface, though. How much would it affect him? Can he still  _function_ if he's that torn apart by grief?

And is it worth finding out?

She goes over to join him. He nods in acknowledgement, but keeps silent, as if he's listening to the muezzin calling in the background. She breathes in the air, still fairly cool at this time of day.

“Found anything interesting?” Moran asks wryly.

“You live the life of a particularly fashionable monk.”

“A _well-armed_ fashionable monk.”

“This business we're in, hm?”

He smiles. “Everything to survive.”

She turns back to the view. “I still think you should come back with me,” she says, but her heart isn't in it anymore.

“Still haven't given up?”

“Give me one good reason why you would refuse.”

He tilts his head back. “Loyalty.”

“He's _dead_ , Sebastian.”

He takes a deep breath, then turns his head. “Anyway, why do you want me? Since when are you interested in... ” He waves his hand. “The hands-on running of things? I thought you were more of a wildcard, not interested in picking sides.”

"I'm my own side," she says. "It's as simple as that. I'm not particularly looking for power, no, but that doesn't mean I won't defend my own interests. And as for why I want you..." She smiles. "I've seen you in action, I know what you can do. And I've always liked a challenge."

He turns his head sharply, as if she struck a nerve. Interesting.

“Plus," she adds, a little reluctantly, "I still have a few rather upset people following me. It could be handy to have a second pair of eyes. And hands.”

He shrugs. “You don't need me to solve that little problem. Well, you do, but not by your side, I mean.”

“Sorry?” she asks, surprised.

“I'll make a few calls later today, talk to a few people. Give them the right information and they'll leave you alone without any more trouble.”

She studies his profile. He doesn't make  _sense_ , and it's deeply frustrating. Her entire career, no, her entire  _life_ is built around her knowing how to read people, but she can't figure him out and it's starting to worry her a little. 

Another reason to steer clear of him.

“And you expect me to believe you'd just do that for me out of the goodness of your heart, do you?” she asks, rather sharply.

“Call it a favour.”

“A favour?” she repeats, dubiously. There's something about him...

He turns his head and gives her a slow smile. “One I might call in one day,” he says coldly, and her breath catches.

People have always underestimated her, because she's a whore. Not that she minds, she's learned to use that to her advantage. But she has always prided herself on her ability not to make the same mistake, to look beyond first impressions and appearances.

Up until now. She had always thought of Moran as mostly unimportant, because he was only the muscle, the lackey, the second in command. Competent, yes, dangerous, without a doubt, but still just a pawn. But now she looks at him and sees the calculating intelligence, the ruthlessness, the cold controlled viciousness, and thinks, _my god_.

It was a mistake, neglecting to think of Moran as a player in his own right.

But then it falls away again and he's just a tired, world-weary, deeply grieving man. “But not anytime soon,” he adds, running a hand through his hair.

She blinks and tries to shake off this strange sense of vertigo. “Then what are you going to do?” she asks, a little sharper than she intended. “Stay here, drugged and miserable, wallowing in self-loathing?”

“No, you're right, this isn't...” He stops. “I need to move on. Literally, I mean. Might join Blackwater again. Or go to Eastern Europe. Who knows I'll even bump into Sherlock Holmes.”

The words don't really register at first.

 _Sherlock Holmes_.

“Sorry, what?” she says, and she's pleased to hear how calm she sounds while inside her heart is beating like mad and the inside of her head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool and she can't _think –_

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says absently. “In Moldavia, last I heard, rolling up some unimportant crime ring.”

“He's _alive_?” she says, incapable of keeping the words in any longer.

Moran turns, looking genuinely surprised. Not a game. “You didn't know?”

“I... did not.”

“The suicide was faked,” he says, frowning at her, and she can't control her face and god knows what he's seeing on her but he's _alive_.

He's alive.

“Who else knows?”

He shrugs. “The brother, as far as I'm aware. Molly Hooper, some other people who helped him.” His lips curls. “Not John Watson.”

She takes a deep breath, still feeling dizzy. _He's alive_.

Moran is watching her, too closely to her liking. “You thought he was dead,” he says. “And it didn't occur to you? After you faked your own death? _Twice_?”

She shakes her head. “No, I... Seems rather stupid, in retrospect.” She looks at him, and with a sudden vicious need to _hurt_ she says, “And what about you?”

“Hm?”

“Don't you ever wonder...” she says, slyly. “They never found a body, did they?”

He goes stiff. His knuckles are white, face drawn, and the look in his eyes is very similar to the one he had when he had the razor against his jugular.

The satisfaction of scoring a hit doesn't last long, though. To be honest, his grief disturbs her a little. She can't imagine loving someone so much that losing them would mean such a complete devastation. Not that that doesn't mean...

 _He's alive_.

“No,” he says, at last.

She breathes out and looks back at the view. She feels dizzy. It's like the world has suddenly shifted two inches to the right and nobody bothered to tell her; all her plans and schemes need readjusting.

But she has a starting point, now. And things will be considerably easier without her trail of vengeful assassins.

“Thank you,” she says, as below the streets are getting busier. “And you should know those aren't words that come easily to me.”

“I'm aware. Are you going to look for him?”

“No,” she lies, smoothly. “What would be the point? Although I'm certain our paths will cross again, one way or another.”

“About that...” He turns to her, face serious. “This, between us? It doesn't mean anything. This isn't a _truce.”_

She fights down a shiver. “You said no.”

“I did. And I might be willing to help out here, but if I ever find you in my way...”

Countless men had made that or similar threats to her, and she had laughed pretty much every single time. Only Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes had even given her pause. “Think you can take me?” she asks, hiding her unease behind a smile.

“I'd prefer not to find out.” He frowns and flexes his fingers. “Irene...”

“Yes?”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Is that even your real name, actually?”

She laughs, surprised. “Of course not. But it'll serve.”

“Right. The thing is...” He looks down. Lonely again, bone-deep tired, wistful, weary.

“Yes?”

“I really did come pretty damn close.”

She looks up at him and smiles, sadly. “I know,” she says simply.

He turns back to the view, face stoic. Although... It might just be the glare of the sun, or the wind, but his eyes look a little shiny.

Nevermind, he's not her problem anymore. She gives his shoulder a last squeeze and goes back inside, already mentally planning her trip to Moldavia. 

And ignores the quiet choked noise behind her.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **muezzin:** Guy who calls Muslims to prayer by singing, five times a day, and an inevitable part of the soundtrack of any Muslim city. Lucknow has enough of a Muslim population to make this plausible (I hope).
> 
>  **Blackwater:** Private security company which has been active in Iraq, among other places.


End file.
